


Mr Travers’ new valet

by Adara_Rose



Category: Downton Abbey, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M, Major life changes, Non-Explicit Sex, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7986070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adara_Rose/pseuds/Adara_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tragic death in the family forces Thomas to uproot his entire life. He leaves Downton behind for ever to care for his motherless niece and take up the mantle of Mr Travers' new valet.<br/>Except Jimmy isn't ready to let him go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was a knock at the study door and Michael Crowley grabbed the nearest sheet of paper, trying desperately to look busy. Once he felt reasonably confident that he could pull off the look (and turned the paper over the right way) he called,

“Enter!” There was a moment of silence which he swiftly used to put his glasses on, then one of the servants stepped in. It was a tall fellow with dark hair and one glove-covered hand, so Michael did not have to think for very long before he remembered the man’s name.

“Oh, Barrow. What is it?”

“I I may have a word, sir?” The man was staring at the rug as if it was incredibly fascinating, leaving Michael to wonder if he had ever seen it before. He made a grand gesture with his hand that was completely lost since Barrow kept staring at the rug, but at least he tried.

“Of course, Barrow. Do go on.”

“I wondered of your opinion of children amongst the staff, sir.” Barrow’s voice was about as steady as a duck on a pond that someone just dropped a boulder in.

“As far as I am aware, Downton does not employ children” Michael replied in his best master-of-the-house tone of voice. Mary always said it made him sound very impressive.

“No, my lord. I wondered if it was possible for a member of staff to bring a child onto the premises.”

Michael frowned. He was a father himself, and as such he was fully aware of just how big an annoyance children were. They babbled and cried and talked incessantly and played with your shoes. And to let one of those loose downstairs?

“Impossible” he said with an air of conviction. “Absolutely impossible.” Barrow’s jaw clenched, briefly, before he drew a deep breath and finally looked up. He looked Michael straight in the eye with a ice-cold gaze.

“Then, sir, I regret to inform you that I must offer you my resignation. Effective immediately.”

Michael gaped at him like a fish out of water.

 

* * *

 

 

When Thomas asked for a moment to speak in private, Bates figured it had to do with the letter he had received the same morning. It had left him pale-faced and solemn, and he had neglected his morning duties to go bother Master Michael. Thomas was a rather willful young man, but he usually could be relied upon. Therefore Bates was admittedly rather concerned when he saw Thomas pale face and pinched eyebrows.

“Very well” he said with a long-suffering sigh, “we can speak in my office.”

Bates ‘office’ was really a glorified closet where he did the household accounts, but nobody dared to point that out to him. After the two men had crammed themselves into the tiny space and managed to wrangle the door closed, Thomas wasted no time.

“I have as of this morning resigned my post and will be leaving Downton tomorrow.” Bates could not have been more surprised if Thomas had socked him in the face.

“Resigned?” He squeaked in a very manly way. “But… but why?”

“Lord Crowley will not allow me to bring my sister’s young daughter to Downton. I will not leave her in the care of the useless drunk thinking himself her father a day more than necessary.”

“But… your sister?” Bates tried, even though he could see from the look on Thomas’ face that there was no point in trying.

“She is dead. That was what the letter was about. It was from my mother. Helen… passed away three days ago. Took the baby with her.”

Bates, who had not known that Thomas had a sister, much less that she was pregnant or dead, tried his best to look understanding and compassionate. It failed miserably, but he got points for trying. Thomas, who was staring determinedly out the window, didn’t seem to notice as he went on;

“Her husband is a drunk. And a layabout. I will not leave Abigail with him.”

“Can’t your mother-”

“No.” There was an air of finality in that sole syllable that made Bates give up. Clearly, the man had made up his mind. It made him feel a bit torn: on one hand, he disliked Thomas greatly; the man was an unreliable bastard. On the other hand, he was one of the best workers on all of Downton. He knew where everything and everyone was at any given time, could always be trusted to carry out any task, and never gave anyone any reason to fault him. Well, except for that business with the footman… Bates sighed.

“We will miss you” he said diplomatically. Thomas shot him a dubious glance, but thankfully he said nothing. Instead he bowed his head as a show of respect and left, presumably to start packing and make whatever other arrangements he deemed necessary.

 

* * *

 

 

Thomas closed his suitcase with a final click and checked his watch. The evening was late, but there was a train for Nottingham later that evening that he would catch if he did not tarry. Once in Nottingham, he would have to take another train to Market Snodsbury in Worcestershire. He expected to arrive sometime the next day, most likely during the afternoon. Helen’s daughter Abigail would be staying at friends in the meanwhile. As he stood and looked around the room to see if he had forgotten something, he did his best not to think of the fact that he had no work lined up for him. He had not thought that far when he offered Master Michael his resignation. The letter of recommendation he had received was full of praise, but that did not change the fact that all skills he had were that of the servant. The only place he knew of near Market Snodsbury was a placed called Brinkley Court, but he had no idea if the people there were looking for new servants. Or, if they did, if they would permit Abigail. 

Oh, how Helen would have lectured him if she had known what he had done. 

“Thomas” She would have said in that tone of part frustration and part fond exasperation that he hated so much, “how could you be so stupid as to give up a good position without something else lined up?”

But Helen wasn’t there, was she? And that was the whole problem. Helen was dead, and that meant that Ambrose Caine was alone to care for his sweet Abigail. He could not, would not, stand for it. If nothing else, than for Helen’s sake. He barely remembered the little girl, having not seen her for nigh on three years, but mother had written that she feared for the girl’s safety and happiness. That was all he needed to know, really. If there was one thing he had learnt in this miserable world, was that family came first. And he had very little family left. Just his mother - and Abigail.

He was just trying to remember if the child had brown or blue eyes when he was interrupted by a harsh knock on the door. Sighing, he went to open it thinking it was O'Brien to give him another lecture on his stupidity on leaving to take care of his sister’s brat when she had a perfectly good father. He was not in the mood to argue with her, she didn’t listen to what he had to say anyway.

It took him a moment or two to realise who it was standing outside, wild-eyed and dishevelled as if he had been running.

“Jimmy?” He finally managed. 

“Is it true?” Jimmy demanded, sounding as out of breath as he looked.

“Is what true?” Thomas replied, trying to buy time.

“That you are leaving Downton!” The younger man cried, and Thomas sighed deeply. He wasn’t in the mood for another scene, so he stepped aside and made a vague gesture.

“Get in” he said. Jimmy stormed past him, his face turning a shade of red that would have been alarming if it hadn’t been so cute.

The moment the door closed Jimmy was on him, hands fisted into his shirt.

“Tell me it’s not true!” He demanded, breath hot on Thomas’ face. It made certain parts of his anatomy sit up and pay attention. 

“It is true” Thomas replied and felt proud of how he managed to keep his voice steady and his hands in check. Jimmy stared at him, still wild-eyed, as if trying to make him say that he was joking. He stared back, stubborn. 

“Why?” Jimmy finally whispered, seemingly unaware of the proximity of their bodies. Thomas, however, was very aware of the nearness of the other man and glared at him in an attempt to cover up his growing arousal,

“Unhand me, Kent” he growled. 

Jimmy jerked as if startled and let go with what Thomas traitorous heart immediately labelled reluctance.

“Why?” he begged, and it hurt to see those beautiful blue eyes. But then he thought of his little niece and it gave him new strength.

“Because of Abigail.” He said simply.

“Who is Abigail?” Jimmy asked, bewildered.

“My niece. She is only seven and has lost her mother.”

“Bring her here, then!” 

“The Crowleys will not allow a child amongst the staff.” Thomas sighed, feeling impossibly tired. It was what he wanted, but he was used to not getting what he wanted by now. 

“But-” Jimmy seemed lost for words and, knowing full well that this was most likely the last time he would ever lay eyes on his beautiful face, Thomas couldn’t help but feel a little bitter.

“Besides” he added coldly, “she is all I have.” The comment struck harder than he had ever, even in his wildest dreams, dared to believe. Jimmy flinched back as if struck.

“You have me!” He protested vehemently and Thomas could not hold back short, bitter laugh.

“No, I don’t. I never had you, no matter how badly I wanted to. Filthy faggot, remember?”

Jimmy opened his mouth as if to protest, but Thomas would not have it.

“It is settled. I am leaving Downton to-night to go to Market Snodsbury and try to make a life for myself and Abigail. You will forget me in a week or two. I am, after all, only the pathetic invert who is in love with you.” That said, he pushed past Jimmy and picked up his suitcase. Jimmy stood frozen, staring at him with wide pleading eyes that Thomas chose not to see. He walked briskly down the stairs, nodding his last goodbyes to the other servants. He had said his goodbyes to the ones who mattered, and now there was nothing left to do. 

 

* * *

 

  
As he settled into the back of the car that would take him away from Downton for the very last time, he did not look back. His pride forbade him to, even as his heart pleaded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak a lick of french, so if it's wildly off-kilter I apologize most profusely and blame google translate.

The eyes that stared at Thomas dubiously from over the mug of hot cocoa were Helen’s rich brown colour, but there was none of her warmth and laughter in them. These eyes were sad, haunted and wary. No child should have eyes like that, but there they were. Abigail frowned at him.

“You don’t look much like an uncle Tom” she said, finally.

“I suppose not” he acquiesced. “You can call me Thomas, if you like.” She sipped some of her cocoa, still not taking her eyes from his face.

“I vaguely remember a man with dark hair singing me a lullaby when I was little. Was that you?” Thomas felt helpless. How was he supposed to answer that?

“I… might have been” he finally ventured.

Abigail put down her now-empty mug, still staring at him critically.

“Alright” she said as she stood up, her too-small nightgown falling to her knees. He would have to get her a new one as soon as possible.

“Sing me a lullaby, and I’ll make up my mind if I like you after.” Well, at least she was honest. He liked that.

Sitting down carefully on the side of her bed, he looked down at the seven-year-old who looked back with her solemn brown eyes. Her hair fell over her pillow like a thin sheet of fine dark silk, and the teddy in her arms was one he remembered from when he was little. It had been his until he turned nine and decided he was too old for such things. Now it rested comfortably in his little niece’s arms, and he felt something warm bubble in him as he saw it. Affection, yes, that was it.

He stroked Abigail’s soft hair, so much like her mother’s, and started to sing. It was a song he remembered from his own childhood, and one of the few he knew how to sing well.

_ “I sow'd the Seeds of Love, and I sow'd them in the spring. I gather'd them up in the morning so soon, while the small birds so sweetly sing...” _

Once the last few words of the song had been sung and the silence once more reigned around them, Abigail blinked sleepily up at him.

“I recognized your voice” she murmured as she snuggled into the pillow, clutching her teddy bear. “Goodnight, uncle Tom.”

“Goodnight, Abigail.” He whispered as he dared to lean down to press a kiss to her temple. He remembered his father doing so when he was very small, and it had always made him feel treasured. It seemed to work on Abigail too; there was a small, sweet smile playing over her pink lips as her eyes shut own their own volition. 

He sat with her until she was fast asleep, then he picked up the candle and left the room. On the doorstep, he turned back and looked at her again. With her dark hair, long lashes and worn teddy she looked so much like her mother at that age it made his heart ache.

“Goodnight, Abigail” he whispered again as he carefully closed the door.

 

* * *

 

 

The third day in Market Snodsbury, Thomas started wondering if there wasn’t something to mother’s talk about lucky stars after all. It was just as he left the post office, where he had picked up a few stamps for his mother, when he was nearly mowed down by a wild-eyed man who looked like he was one small surprise away from frothing at the mouth.

“Mad, the lot of them!” he shrieked as if Thomas knew exactly what he was talking about, “the entire bloody family! I am never going back!” And then he ran off down the street, leaving Thomas wondering what in the blazes was going on.

“Goodness” said the shopgirl as she popped her head outside, “was that Mr Greene? He looked like he had the devil himself after him!”

“I heard that Mr Travers has his eye on a new piece for his collection” one of the older men in the post office said. 

“That’d explain it” the girl nodded wisely and disappeared back inside. 

Thomas stood in the street for a moment, stamps still in hand, feeling very confused. Then he went back into the post office for an explanation.

“Oh, Mr Greene is MR Travers’ manservant.” The shop girl -’call me Bella, handsome’- said chirpily, and added at his blank stare; “Mr Travers owns Brinkley Court, biggest residence in the area. Rich as the king, they say, but one heck of a miser. And more or less bonkers, but they all are up there. Good to his staff, though, I’ve heard. Mr Seppings - that’s the butler - comes in now and then and he only has good things to say.” Thomas’ mind whirred. If this Mr Greene had just quit his post, surely Mr Travers would be in the need of a new manservant. And he had an excellent reference from Mr Crowley...

“Tell me, Bella” he said and tried to sound as charming as possible, “what is the quickest way to get to Brinkley Court?”

 

* * *

Thomas was shown into the sitting room of Mrs Travers, who turned out to be a woman in her fifties with elegantly cut silver hair. She had a very red face, which was not at all helped by her green dress, but she seemed to be rather good-natured and reasonable. Until she opened her mouth, and the volume of her voice nearly made him bust an eardrum.

“Who is this blighter you bring me, Seppings?” She demanded in a tone of voice that made the figurines on the mantlepiece rattle ominously. Thomas thanked his long experience of valeting for managing to keep a straight face.

“This is Mr Barrow, madam. He heard that Mr Travers is in need of a new valet and is offering his services. He comes very well recommended.” Mrs Travers looked at Thomas with a measuring stare.

“I expect you have papers” she said in the same tone of voice as earlier. A quick glance at the mantlepiece showed that a porcelain shepherdess had fallen over and was in immediate danger of rolling onto the floor.

“Yes, madam” Thomas replied politely and handed over his letter of recommendation. Mrs Travers looked it over, her eyes widening as she read.

“Well” she said, sounding clearly impressed. “You seem like a good egg, Mr Barrow.” She gave him another sharp look. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I beg your pardon, madam?”

“You leave Downton in quite a hurry. What is it? Inappropriate behaviour with a parlour maid?”

“My sister passed, leaving me the caretaker of her daughter.”

Mrs Travers’ stern face turned compassionate.

“The poor thing!” She cried, “how old is she?”

“Just turned seven, madam.”

“And the father-?” 

“A drunk, madam” Thomas said bluntly. Mrs Travers nodded.

“Of course you can’t leave your dear niece with such a man” she boomed. “Bring the girl here, Barrow. I’m sure Seppings can put her to use. She will have to attend school in the village, of course. See to it, Seppings.”

“Yes, madam” The elderly man who served as the Travers’ butler said as he bowed politely.

“Can you start immediately?” Mrs Travers demanded. “Tom is quite in a state and with his indigestion we are all in for one hell of a week unless something is done.”

“Yes, madam.” Thomas bowed, head reeling from his good fortune. He had employment - and they were willing to let him bring Abigail! He could have cried. 

But since such emotional outbursts were highly inappropriate, he settled for bowing and murmuring a respectful “yes, madam, right away” and then hurrying after Seppings into the corridor.

“How’s your head?” Seppings asked in a gruff but kind voice as soon as the door had closed.

“Ringing” Thomas admitted. “Is her voice always at that volume?”

“Oh no, not at all.” Thomas felt greatly relieved - until Seppings continued; “she’s been rather subdued these last few days. Very worried about the Master.”

Thomas nearly whimpered. Could he change his mind now?

 

* * *

 

 

Mr Travers turned out to be a man about ten years older than his wife if Thomas were to make a rough estimation. He was sitting in an old armchair, slumped over as if the world had ended last week and they had waited until now to inform him. Thomas looked around the rather messy room and decided that he would start by neatening, before approaching the man who seemed to be interested in little but the occasional whimper and clutching of his head. That said, he started gathering loose articles of clothing and random pieces of silver, putting the clothes away into closets and drawers and gathering the silver on the sideboard to polish later. Once he was finished, he carefully approached the old man.

“Mr Travers?” He asked carefully, and was rewarded with a shocked startle and a yelp from the man.

“Who? Who are you?”

“I am your new valet, sir. My name is Barrow.” Mr Travers looked around the room, seeing it neat and tidy with not an item out of place.

“Who cleaned?” He asked, bewildered.

“I did, sir.” Mr Travers looked impressed.

“Without disturbing me or ruining anything! Excellent! You’re hired.” Thomas refrained from pointing out that he already  _ had _ been hired, thank you very much, and bowed politely.

“Thank you, sir. Is there anything else you require, sir?”

“I can’t find my silver cufflinks!” The man cried in despair, clutching at his forehead once more.

“Would that be the ones inlaid with sapphires, the ones inlaid with emeralds, or the ones in shape of little dolphins, sir?” Thomas asked carefully.

“You found my dolphins?” Mr Travers asked, staring at Thomas like he had just told him that God had changed his mind about that apocalypse and decided to put it off indefinitely.

“In our left brown shoe, sir.” Thomas said and went to fetch them from the sideboard. 

After that, dressing Mr Travers for dinner was quick work. 

“I haven’t polished my silver” Mr Travers cried anxiously as Thomas pushed him out the door.

“I shall ensure it is done post-haste, sir.”

“I do not allow just anyone to polish my silver, Sparrow.” Mr Travers said petulantly. Thomas ignored the mistake in his name, and instead said as soothingly as he could:

“I will do it myself, sir.” Mr Travers still looked concerned, but allowed Thomas to usher him out the door just as the doorbell rang for the second time.

Thomas sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. What on earth was he getting himself into?

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, after dinner, Mr Travers inspected his silver very carefully before rewarding Thomas with a beaming smile.

“This cow creamer has not looked this good since I bought it! Have I hired you yet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, consider yourself rehired!” 

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, I heard from Dahlia that you have a little niece?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is her name?”

“Abigail Barrow, sir.”

“And she is but a small child?”

“Seven years old, sir.”

“Seven. Goodness. Does she live in the village?”

“In Market Snodsbury, sir. With my mother.”

“That simply will not do!” Mr Travers cried, “you must bring the child here tomorrow!” Thomas startled, shocked at the man’s generosity.

“Thank you sir, I will ensure her prompt arrival.” He finally said, trying not to sound too choked.

“Good! Now, I would like a bath.”

“It is already drawn, sir. If you would step this way.” 

Having bunged Mr Travers into his bath, received more praise for it being the perfect temperature, dried and dressed his new master in green silk pajamas, Thomas found himself dismissed for the evening with the instruction to bring breakfast at eight o’clock the following morning. Then, feeling rather pleased with his first night as a valet, he left Mr Travers to his rest.

 

* * *

 

 

Finding the kitchen was quite easy, as the chattering from the staff drew him there. Upon entering, he was assaulted by the most delicious scents he could imagine and the beaming smile of a tall, handsome middle-aged man who had started to go grey at the temples.

“Ah, you are Monsieur Travers’ new man, oui?” The man said as he vigorously shook Thomas’ hand, sending a frisson of heat through his body. “I am Anatole, ze chef! Come, you must be hungry - you missed dinner! I make you something small, oui?”

“Thank you” Thomas said as his stomach rumbled. “My name is Thomas Barrow.”

“Ah, Tomas, mon frere! You will fit right in, you will see. Call me Hercule, hm?” And before Thomas had time to protest at the informality, a plate of fragrant fish and potatoes were set in front of him accompanied by a mug of ale that a young girl had poured.

“I’m Celia” the girl said smiling, showing that a front tooth was missing, “the parlour maid. Welcome to Brinkley, Thomas.”

“Thank you” he said and found himself smiling back. It felt a bit strange to be so welcomed; in the few hours he had been there, Seppings had taken him on a tour of the entire house and explained about the family. Mr Travers had seemed to genuinely like him. The gardeners had greeted him with friendly smiles, Anatole - no, Hercule - was giving him looks that could be considered downright flirty, and the parlourmaid was smiling at him like he had just offered to marry her. The difference to Downton was like night and day, and he found that their friendliness and warmth was turning him into someone else. It was as if he had left the old Thomas Barrow at Downton. Who he was becoming he did not know, but he was anticipating finding out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Thomas sings is "The Seeds of Love", an old English ballad from the 17th century. If you'd like to listen to it, Loreena McKennitt sings it very prettily. It's on youtube.


	3. Chapter 3

Abigail stared up at the magnificent Brinkley Court with wide-eyed wonder as her little hand clutched rather desperately at Thomas’ large one.

“Will we live here, Uncle Tom?” She finally asked as he led her around the house to the servants’ entrance. Her other hand clutched at her teddy bear, while Thomas carried her small bag.

“Yes, we will. Mrs Travers has assured me that you are welcome and there has been a bed put into my room for you.” Abigail looked relieved, and he wondered if she had worried about being away from him. She flashed him a shy little grin that was a bit brighter than when he had arrived in Market Snodsbury a week previous, and it warmed his heart to see it. Maybe, things would turn out alright for Abigail, too.

“Will I still go to school?” Abigail asked, worried, as they approached the door.

“Yes, but in Snodsbury-on-the-Marsh. Celia says it's about half an hour’s walk.”

“Celia?”

“The parlour maid. You will meet her soon.” He opened the door and ushered Abigail inside, helping her off with her coat and hat. The child stood in the tall room with a look of wonder in her pale face, before hurrying back to him and clutching at his hand. He couldn't help but smile down at her.

“Come, Abigail. Let’s go introduce you to Hercule.”

“Who’s Hercule, Uncle Tom?”

“That’s the chef. You will like him. And you will really enjoy his cooking.”

 

Thomas was right in that Abigail would like Hercule - and from the very beginning, the frenchman absolutely adored “la petite mademoiselle”, whom soon found herself with the nickname _la petite_ . The name caught on and before the day was over the entire staff referred to Thomas’ little niece as _la petite_. Mrs Travers also called for Thomas and requested to see the girl, and spent twenty minutes interrogating her on her schooling and knowledge. Abigail, who had seemed terrified when Thomas brought her before Mrs Travers, calmed more and more and was soon beaming with pride at being spoken to directly by the lady of the house herself.

 

Abigail proved to be a very quiet and shy girl, but with sharp eyes and ears that heard and understood a lot more than she let on. She also turned have her mother’s keen intelligence. For each day that passed, Thomas saw Helen more and more clearly in the girl and it only made him adore her more. Each morning, there was an unfamiliar ache in his chest as he watched her walk across the lawn on her way to school, her elegant brown school bag containing her supplies and a packed lunch from Hercule. He had told Jimmy Kent the night he left Downton that Abigail was all he had, but as he saw her tiny form disappear out the gate he realised it was true. She was, truly, his whole world.

 

* * *

 

 

Thomas had been at Brinkley for a little over a month when Seppings came to talk to him one afternoon. Thomas was seated in the silver hall, where Mr Travers hosted his collection of antique silver (most of which Thomas would not want to be found dead in a ditch next to), polishing an unusually hideous cream jug in the form of a cow. When Seppings entered, Thomas made as to stand up in respect but Seppings gestured at him to remain seated.

“Please, Barrow, there is no need to stand on formality.” And this was the man who was the only one amongst the servants to call the others by their surnames. To be fair, Thomas still didn’t know what the butler’s christian name was!

“How may I be of service?” He instead asked politely, putting down the rag.

“Actually, it is service I wanted to speak to you about. Or rather, a service I suspect you need performed.”

Thomas blinked at him repeatedly, but still had no clue what he was on about.

“Sir?” He finally ventured, completely confused. Seppings gave him a blunt look as he said,

“You need a tumble, Barrow.” Thomas squeaked with shock and dropped the cow creamer. It clattered onto the table and if Thomas hadn’t been so shocked he would have been checking for dents. In the table, that was.

“I beg your pardon?” He squeaked in alarm. Seppings, however, seemed completely unruffled.

“Mrs Travers trusts me to ensure that all members of her staff are happy with their situation, both on and off duty. This also means that I ensure that all needs are met. A happy staff serves with joy and creates a happy household.” He leveled Thomas with a stern look. “You have not been as happy as you could be. I see that your niece brings you joy, but there is still a melancholy air about you. A man has that look when he is missing his sweetheart, and since there has been no letters for you since you arrived a month ago I expect that things ended badly.” Well, that was one way of putting it…

Seppings ignored Thomas stuttered attempt to stop the conversation and pressed on like a greek general spotting the walls of Troy on the other side of the next hill.

“And since you clearly have no interest in any of the females on staff, even though they are all of the opinion that you are - and now I am quoting one of them, but I will not say who - a 'most specific dream rabbit', I draw the conclusion that you are more interested in the male of the species. Am I right?”

Thomas was still trying to get his brain to comprehend what was going on, so all he could do was gawk at Seppings in mute shock and horror. Apparently, this was all the confirmation the butler needed.

“Monsieur Anatole is a most accommodating fellow with an eye for beautiful people, of any sex. When you realise that I am right in that you need a… diversion, do have a word with him, hm?”

Thomas stuttered something he fervently hoped was “yes sir”, but he was so dazed that he honestly didn't know. Seppings nodded his satisfaction.

“Oh, and Mr Travers is most pleased with you, Barrow. Keep up the good work.” And then he was gone, leaving Thomas to reel all on his lonesome.

He had no idea how long it took before he managed to go back to polishing that blasted cow creamer.

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you have a sweetheart, Uncle Tom?” Abigail asked that night, after he had braided her hair and tucked her into bed.

“Why do you ask me that, Abigail?” What was it with the people at Brinkley and their obsession with his romantic inclinations?

“When I was looking for Miss Angela's gloves earlier, I overheard Miss Celia say to Miss Alice that a handsome fellow like you must have a sweetheart. Do you?”

Thomas thought of Jimmy Kent and his heart stuttered momentarily.

“Yes” he whispered before he had time to stop himself.

“Where is he? At Downton?”

Thomas stared at his niece in shock.

“How’d you-”

“I told mother I was going to marry you when I grew up and she said that I couldn’t, because we’d both be miserable. Then she explained that you don’t care for girls. So if you have a sweetheart, it must be a boy.”

Thomas trembled.

“Abigail-” he started, not knowing how to go on.

“I won’t tell anyone” she said, as if she already knew what he was thinking. “Mother said I mustn’t.”

Good old Helen, he thought with a tinge of anger. She never could keep her mouth shut. But Abigail was looking up at him with wide, earnest eyes and he found himself wanting to be honest with her. She was his whole world now; she deserved at least his honesty.

“Yes, he said softly, “he is at Downton. But I am not his sweetheart.”

Abigail’s eyes filled with tears and she sat up, throwing her arms around him.

“Then he doesn’t deserve you, uncle Tom. Your sweetheart should love you, too. Otherwise he is… he is just a big old meanie!” Her little voice was so honestly outraged on his behalf that he could not hold back a snort of laughter.

“Thank you” he said, fondly. “And now it is time for you to sleep.”

“Not without my lullaby” she pouted, and he smiled as he tucked her back into her bed.

“Alright” he said, and then he started to sing.

_"I gathered them up in the morning too soon..."_

 

* * *

 

 

Thomas had never been a slave to his lusts, but after another month at Brinkley which had included three large dinner parties, one shooting weekend, and one visit from Mrs Gregson, Mrs Travers’ sister, whom everyone still shuddered at the mere memory off, he was feeling a bit off kilter. He needed a distraction.

Mr Travers was a rather… eccentric character, but Thomas had figured out early on that as long as he kept the bedroom tidy, the silver polished, and listened patiently when Mr Travers blathered on about pearl edges and stamps and whatnot, the man was as happy as a pig in mud. Thomas’ work was a breeze, even if there were repeated battles about Mr Travers evening dress. The people flitting in and out of Brinkley at Mrs Travers’ invitation were the oddest lot he had ever seen, but they never failed to keep life interesting. However, the staff informed him, he had not seen anything yet; Mr Travers’ nephew, Mr Wooster, was expected for his annual month-long summer visit the following week and apparently, chaos followed that man wherever he went. No, professionally everything was fine.

But nobody had warned him about raising a child. He had not expected the constant worrying; where was Abigail when she was out of his sight, was she safe, was she happy, did someone look after her? If she was sad in school, who comforted her? Who made sure she did not get into trouble at Brinkley? Or worse, got herself hurt?

There were nights where he laid awake, worrying about everything and nothing in particular, while listening to her light, even breaths from where she slept on the other side of the room. Listening for the smallest hint of uneven breaths. He still remembered vividly how his brother Stephen had died when he was a child, the older boy’s lungs struggling and straining for every breath near the end. The tuberculosis had taken Helen too, and on the nights Thomas laid awake he found himself terrified that the disease had passed from mother to daughter. It didn’t matter that Doctor Mason in the village had declared Abigail ‘fit as a fiddle’ when Thomas had brought her in for her check-up. There were also nights when he was awoken by a teary voice begging to be allowed to sleep in ‘uncle Tom’s’ bed, and he rocked and soothed her until her sobs quieted and she fell back asleep, nestled in his arms.

But this night, it wasn’t worry for Abigail that kept him awake. He felt dreadfully lonely, wishing uselessly that there was a warm body lying next to him, warm breaths in his ear, strong hands on his body. Well, to be honest, he wished Jimmy was lying next to him. It was ridiculous of course, he had not heard a word from Jimmy since he left Downton. He hadn’t written, either. What would be the point? He loved Jimmy, Jimmy did not love him. That was the end of it. But his body still wanted, needed to be touched. It was so very long since someone touched him. He turned over in his bed, burying his face in the pillow and doing his best to ignore how his member was throbbing between his legs, his balls full with the need for release. He had tried stroking himself off as late as the previous night, but it had not lulled his needs at all. In fact, it had only seemed to incense them and he remembered what Seppings had said about Hercule. He rolled onto his back, feeling his skin tingle with the need to be touched by someone who wasn’t himself or Abigail. In short, he wanted a lover, even if only for the night. And he couldn’t have Jimmy, no matter what his heart whispered.

He sat up slowly, looking over to where Abigail slept. Sending a quick prayer that she would not have nightmares this night, he slipped from his bed and padded down the hall on naked feet, trembling with both excitement and dread of what he was doing.

Standing outside Hercule’s door, Thomas hesitated. What was he doing? What if Hercule wasn’t alone? He was… _very friendly,_ after all. He remembered having seen Alice, the kitchen maid, sneak out of Hercule’s room early one morning when he was up to check on Mr Travers, who had gone to bed early with indigestion the night before. Or worse, what if he _was_ alone? What then? But before he had time to work himself into a proper panic, a soft voice spoke just behind him.

“Mon beau Tomas, what are you doing up this late?” Thomas spun around and saw Hercule, looking at him with tired amusement.

“I could ask the same” he said nervously, trying to deflect attention away from himself.

“Madame Travers prefers _petits pains frais_ in the morning, non?” Hercule said, still smiling. “I was preparing ze dough.” His gaze slid over Thomas' body like warm honey, lingering on his… lower portions, so to speak. The gaze turned heated.

“Is that for me, _ma jolie_?” The cook purred as he moved closer. He was warm and strong and smelled faintly of yeast and warm butter. Thomas nodded, feeling light-headed both from nerves and the other man's proximity. Hercule wrapped an arm around his waist and used his free hand to open the door. He pulled Thomas into the room with a low, rumbling laugh.

“Finally” he said, sounding pleased. “I've wanted you since you arrived,  _ beau garçon _ .”


	4. Chapter 4

Mr Wooster arrived on the day he was expected to, and Thomas lurked in the hall while doing his best not to look like he was lurking. He was most curious to see this gentleman that the other servants claimed to be one of the kindest men on earth, and also the most disaster-prone.

“Good thing he has Jeeves” Eric, one of the gardeners, had sniggered into his porridge that morning. “Or he'd have been dead years ago.”

Seppings had admonished him on his insolent way of speaking about Mrs Travers' nephew, but had been made to admit that he was right. Mr Wooster _ was _ rather prone to misadventures. Although, Seppings made sure to remind them all, most of the time it was not Mr Wooster's fault. He was simply a very kind man who had a hard time saying no to his friends and relatives, even when they came up with rather outrageous schemes. But he had Jeeves, he'd added. _ Jeeves must be some sort of paragon _ , Thomas thought as he looked like he wasn't lurking,  _ I wonder what he is like _ .  _ Maybe I could get him to teach me a thing or two. _ He felt reasonably sure in his position, but it never hurt to better oneself. 

 

Just then the door opened and Seppings introduced Mr Wooster. The man in question was of average height, with blond hair and a pleasant face. He had a charming air and was impeccably dressed, looking very handsome.  _ But not a candle to my Jimmy, _ Thomas thought and felt his heart clench with longing. He had visited Hercule’s bed several times in the past fortnight, and one highly memorable time they’d not gotten further than the larder before he had a leg hooked over Hercule’s hips and a fist in his mouth to silence his moans, but his heart still wanted Jimmy Kent. It was ridiculous; shouldn’t he be over him by now? Apparently, it was true that absence made the heart grow fonder. However, the man that followed Mr Wooster, carrying the luggage, made Thomas’ heart skip a beat and he had squeaked out a  _ “Reggie!?” _ before he got himself under control. A quick warning look from Seppings made him clear his throat and say,

“Let me aid you with those, Mr Jeeves.” 

Reginald Jeeves showed no hint of knowing Thomas, but that was only to be expected. He knew Reg very well, so he was neither surprised nor offended.

“That would be appreciated, Mr Barrow.” He said politely, and that was that, so to speak.

“Well” Mr Wooster said, sounding cheery but giving Thomas a very suspicious look, “I suppose I’d better go say hello to the lady of the house, what? Toodle-pip!” And with that highly informal greeting he disappeared up the stairs, leaving Seppings, Jeeves and Thomas in the Hall. 

“Forgive me” Thomas said nervously, “I was just so surprised to see you again. It has been what, fifteen years?”

“Seventeen” Jeeves corrected automatically, before his face once more took on the blank look that Thomas had tried to imitate ever since he arrived at Downton. He did a pretty good stuffed frog impression at this point, but nowhere near as good as Jeeves. Seppings looked suspiciously at them both.

“I expect there won’t be any issues” he said in a foreboding tone. 

“No, sir” Thomas and Jeeves chorused. 

“Very well. Jeeves, Mr Wooster will have his usual room. Barrow, don’t forget that Mr Travers expects his tea in half an hour.” With those words, Seppings sailed off into the general direction of the kitchen and Jeeves and Thomas were left alone with the luggage. Feeling like he ought to say something, Thomas began;

“Reg-” But Jeeves shook his head.

“Not here” he said, “the walls have ears.” Thomas realised that he was right and nodded briskly, picking up two of the suitcases. Then he realised something.

“I’m sorry, but I do not know which is Mr Wooster’s usual room.”

“Follow me” Reg ordered in the calm tone he remembered, the one with a core of steel. It still made his knees slightly weak.

 

* * *

 

 

Thomas put the last shirt in its place and closed the closet door, then turned to Jeeves. 

“Please, forgive me for earlier. I hope I did not embarrass you” he said, remembering what a stickler the other man had been for propriety. People change, but not that much, he figured.

“It is no problem. I admit I was rather startled to see you, as well. I thought you were up north.”

“Yes, I was. At Downton. But… well, circumstances change. You remember Helen?”

“Yes, very fondly.”

“Well, she died, nearly four months ago. Left her daughter and wastrel husband, who disappeared to God knows where mere days after the funeral.” Jeeves frowned in disapproval.

“I am truly sorry, Thomas.”

“Thank you.” There was an uncomfortable silence until Jeeves pressed on.

“What about the child?”

“She is here, at Brinkley. Mrs Travers was most generous in letting me keep her here. She has a bed in my room and attends school in the village.” Jeeves looked pleased at that.

“And how are you faring?” He asked kindly. “I remember you and Helen were very close.” Thomas made a grimace; he had been close to his sister and her loss still stung like an open wound. He suspected that it always would.

“Abigail is a great comfort; she reminds me daily of Helen.”

“I expect that is a double-edged sword.”

“It is, but I cannot imagine not getting to see her grow up and develop. Considering my… circumstances, I will never have my own children. She is most precious to me.” Jeeves neatened the already neat desk, then turned to Thomas. There was a question in those eyes Thomas himself had been afraid to ask.

“Do you remember/” Jeeves began.

“Yes” Thomas breathed, “very fondly.” Jeeves eyes darkened a fraction, and Thomas felt a jolt of heat run down his spine. 

“Perhaps, we might be able to… catch up” Jeeves murmured. Thomas licked his suddenly dry lips.

“Yes” he said, “I would like that.”

They stared at each other for several moments, remembering the year they had both served as page boys at Lord Wymare’s residence Meadowlark Hall in Gloucester. Jeeves had been nineteen, Thomas just turned fifteen. His young age had not hindered him from learning the ways of men, though, especially not from the stunningly handsome older boy. There had been many passionate afternoons and evenings in the darkest parts of the gardens, and he remembered each and every one of them fondly.

There would probably have been a spot of mutual remembering right then and there if not for the fact that the clock in the hall toiled, reminding Thomas that Mr Travers was waiting for his tea. Undoubtedly he would want it in bed, since he was once again laid up with his indigestion.

“Forgive me” Thomas said, sounding far more breathless than he liked, “I must go. Mr Travers-”

Jeeves nodded his acquiesce, but said nothing. Perhaps it was for the best.  

 

* * *

 

 

At luncheon the following day, Mr Travers felt well enough to join the rest of the family at the dinner table. This meant that Thomas was serving, alongside Seppings and Jeeves. He had at some level expected there to be tension between him and Jeeves, but there wasn’t. Simply an easy camaraderie that he remembered from his days at Meadowlark Hall. 

“It was terrible when Greene left so suddenly” Mrs Travers said at what for her was normal conversation volume. In other words, it made the cutlery rattle but most of the ornaments around the room stayed upright. “Or, at least were thought so. Then Lady Fortuna sent Barrow to our door. Have you seen Barrow, Bertie?” Bertie was apparently Mr Wooster, as the gentleman looked up from his soup and smiled happily at no one in particular.

“Oh yes, I saw him in the hall when I arrived. Tall fellow, dark hair?”

“That’s the one. Marvel, Barrow is. Nearly as good as Jeeves. Isn’t he, Tom?” She looked to Mr Travers, who was poking unhappily at his clear broth. Thomas made a mental note to serve him some of the fish and vegetables for the next course, but no potatoes. Starches seemed to make Mr Travers’ stomach act up.

“Oh yes” Mr Travers said, brightening. “Why, when he first arrived Sparrow cleaned my room in five minutes flat without making so much as a rustle. He even found my dolphins!” He said, looking positively gleeful. “He is a treasure, where did you find him dear?” The last bit was directed at Mrs Travers.

“Oh, Seppings found him. In Market Snodsbury, I think.” She waved dismissively with her spoon and Thomas just barely kept himself from wincing at the stains on the new tablecloth that Celia had spent all morning ironing. Miss Travers piped up.

“And his niece is simply darling! It was the little girl we saw earlier, Bertie.” she explained at Mr Wooster’s blank expression, “Picking flowers for mother.”

“Oh, was it little Abigail who picked the lovely flowers!” Mrs Travers cried at a volume that would have made Thomas jump if he wasn’t used to it. “Barrow, thank your niece for me.”

“Yes, madam” Thomas replied politely before returning to his previous position by the serving table. 

At this point, Mr Glossop, who was also a guest at Brinkley as he was engaged to Miss Travers, spoke up.

“He got me some steak and kidney pie from the larder the evening I arrived. I didn’t even have to ask. He just breezed in with my luggage and asked if I would like something to eat!” He sounded delighted, and Miss Travers rolled her eyes at him.

“I’m not surprised he won you over with food, Hildebrand.” She said in a fond tone of voice. Thomas felt his cheeks flush a bright red as the Travers’ continued to praise both him and Abigail; such behaviour would never have taken place at Downton. He found, as a warm feeling spread inside, that he did not mind in the slightest. 

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, once he was secure in Abigail being fast asleep with no dark dreams on the horizon, he slipped from his bed as he had done several times before. But this time he did not head to Hercule’s rooms. Instead, he slipped further down the hall and up the half-staircase leading to the rooms reserved for visiting servants. He knocked lightly on Jeeves’ door, wondering what on earth he was doing there. It was madness, but at the same time he didn’t care. The look in Jeeves’ eyes earlier had reminded him of when he had been a boy and lain with another for the first time, and he wanted to feel desired in that way again. What he was doing with Hercule was nice, but it was only a joining of bodies. His heart was lonelier than ever. Perhaps his old friend could alleviate his loneliness - if for no other reason that he had seen the same loneliness in Jeeves’ eyes since he arrived.

The door opened and he looked into familiar blue eyes.

“Tom” the man inside growled low in his throat as Thomas pressed up against him.

“Reg” he purred in response.

There wasn’t much else said for the rest of the night.


	5. Chapter 5

“How long have you been in love with Mr Wooster?” Thomas asked boldly one afternoon a few days later when he and Jeeves were sharing a cigarette in the far end of the winter garden. The only one who ever bothered to walk in this area was Mr Travers, but Thomas had left him happily ensconced in his silver an hour ago and knew from experience that he would not be available for anything else before dinner. 

Jeeves sighed deeply as he handed back the cigarette.

“Am I truly that obvious?” He asked, sounding tired.

“No, only for one who knows what he is looking for because he sees it every time he looks in the mirror.” The smile Jeeves gave him was bittersweet.

“Who is he?” He asked. Thomas considering refusing to answer on the basis that Jeeves had not answered  _ his _ question, but decided against it.

“His name is Jimmy Kent. He is a footman at Downton.”

“And is there-”

“An understanding? No. All on my part, I’m afraid. I’ve not heard a word from him since I resigned.” 

“I am sorry, Thomas. You deserve to be loved.”

“So do you. So tell me. How long?”

Jeeves sighed deeply once more.

“Since the day I came into his service” he admitted ruefully. “Four years ago.” Thomas grimaced.

“And he doesn’t know?”

“Not an inkling. He is not the most observant of men.” From what Thomas had seen of Mr Wooster, that was absolute rot. He might act the bumbling fool, but Thomas knew an actor when he saw one. Again, he saw one in the mirror every day. No, Mr Wooster was as shrewd as they come, but had the role of the mentally negligible, gobless gentleman down to an artform. It amazed Thomas that Jeeves, who was so observant and intelligent, hadn’t seen through the act years ago. Then again, love is blind and makes fools of us all. He wondered if he should say anything, but decided against it. It would be a lot more entertaining to let Jeeves figure it out on his own. If nothing else than for the satisfaction of seeing the look on Jeeves’ face when he realised just how thoroughly he had been played. Thomas might do his best to be a good role model for Abigail, but his baser nature did come to the forefront at times. He stamped out the cigarette and turned to Jeeves with a flirty smirk.

“Nobody expects us back for at least another hour” he said, “and your Mr Wooster won't be back before dinner.” Mr Wooster had gone off with Mr Glossop and Miss Travers to visit a friend of Miss Travers' earlier in the day. Jeeves was many things, but you could not accuse him of being slow on the uptake. Jeeves knew exactly what Thomas was implying and returned the smirk with one of his own.

“Whatever shall we do?” He asked innocently.

“Oh, I think we can come up with something.”

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, as Abigail and Thomas were strolling along the lane hand in hand, they were met by a decidedly frazzled Seppings. It was Thomas’ day off, and as always he had taken Abigail into Market Snodsbury on the bus to visit with Mrs Barrow. The young girl loved her grandmother dearly and they had great joy in each other. After the visit, he had taken Abigail to a matinee and she was babbling excitedly about everything she had seen in the film. He listened with only one ear, enjoying the sunshine and the warm feeling of having a happy child with him. Well, he had been enjoying it until they met said frazzled butler. Seppings sailed towards them like he was trying to outrun a storm, an air of concern and consternation about him. Abigail immediately stopped cold, fell silent mid-sentence and shrank back against Thomas. All her vitality was suddenly gone as she now trembled and clutched at his arm, sensing that something was about to happen.

“Seppings” Thomas said and tried his best to sound calm and friendly in an attempt to soothe Abigail.

“Mr Barrow, Miss Abigail” Abigail was the first and only person Thomas had so far heard Seppings refer to with their christian name, even if he did use the honorific, “we have received a…  _ guest _ today. He seems most anxious and is upsetting the entire staff.” He levelled Thomas with a disapproving look. “If you expect visitors, I would appreciate to be informed.” Thomas froze. The only man he could imagine possibly coming to see him at Brinkley was Ambrose Caine, Abigail’s no-good father. He felt dizzy. What if he had come to take her away from him? No, he mustn’t! She was his whole world! He could feel Abigail tremble against him, and realised that she thought the same and was just as frightened as he was.

“I did not expect any visitors” Thomas said once he got his voice working, “who is it?”

“A gentleman” and Seppings said the word like he thought the man in question to be anything but, “named Kent. Says he knows you from Downton.”

The dread coiled in Thomas’ stomach disappeared in an instant to be replaced with bewilderment.  _ Jimmy Kent? _ What on earth was Jimmy Kent doing at Brinkley? And how had he found out that he was there? He had left no forwarding address when he left Downton. For a moment, a wild hope bubbled within him. Perhaps Jimmy had come to say he loved Thomas too, and all his waiting was at an end? They’d-

Abigail tugging at his arm pulled him back to reality.

“Is it  _ that _ Mr Kent, uncle Tom?” she asked, looking up at him with her wide eyes.

“I- I don’t know, Abigail. Let’s go find out, shall we?” And with a look of determined cheer, Thomas once more started towards the house. He kept a strong grip on Abigail's little hand, ignoring Seppings confused looks. It had to be  _ that _ Jimmy Kent. But what could he possibly want?

 

* * *

 

 

Jimmy was pacing the servant’s entrance hall like a tiger in a cage waiting for the tiger tamer to bring it into the circus tent. He looked rumpled, like he had taken the milk train but been too nervous to get any sleep on it. Thomas remembered that feeling vividly from when he himself had left Downton for Market Snodsbury after Helen’s death. Had it really been only six months? It felt like years. Abigail looked at the stranger with large, worried eyes and Thomas leaned down to catch her gaze.

“It’s going to be alright, Abigail” he murmured gently. “But I need to speak to Jimmy alone, alright? Why don’t you go ask Hercule to get you a snack, hm?”

Abigail was clearly reluctant to go, but she knew her uncle well enough not to argue. She slipped through the door leading to the corridor that would bring her to the kitchen without as much as a noise of protest, Seppings following her after one last concerned look at Thomas’ pale face. 

And then he was alone with Jimmy Kent for the first time in six months. 

The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity, until Jimmy finally spoke. 

“You never wrote” the younger man said in an accusatory tone. Thomas frowned.

“I didn’t see the point” he defended himself. “You’d made it perfectly clear where we stood and I had Abigail to think of. And my job.” But the protest sounded weak even in his own ears as he stood face to face with Jimmy now, with those enchanting blue eyes holding him prisoner as so many times before. To his surprise, it was Jimmy who looked away first.

“You’re not an easy man to find. When I finally realised that I needed to track you down… pure luck I managed to remember the name of the village you were heading to. Then I had to spend  _ three days _ in that pit before I found someone who would tell me where I could find your mother!  _ Your mother, Thomas! _ I had to have  _ tea _ with her and listen to her prattle on about how you were her pride and joy and weren't you going somewhere for  _ half an hour _ before I managed to get a word in edgewise!” Thomas felt a sting of sympathy. His mother's skill at tea-making was in direct reverse proportion to her skill at chatting. And Jimmy had had to endure both. 

“I’m sorry.” He said vaguely, not knowing what else to say. Jimmy laughed incredulously.

“You’re sorry? I quit my job, spend every last penny I have to get to Market Snodsbury where people looked at me blankly when I asked for you for  _ days _ before finally managing to locate your mother. I’m forced to have awful tea and listen to terrible conversation for hours before I manage to get the woman to tell me that you’re at Brinkley Court and another hour to get her to tell me how to get here, and  _ you’re sorry?”  _ Jimmy looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry and Thomas felt more confused than he had been in his entire life.

“Why… why did you invest so much in finding me?” He finally managed to ask. Jimmy stared at him as if he couldn’t quite believe that Thomas would ask something that stupid.

“Because I’m in love with you.” Jimmy finally said, as if he was speaking to an unusually dim-witted child. Thomas blinked at him. The world was most definitely not making sense anymore. Jimmy Kent, in love with him? Whatever the punchline of this particular joke was, he wasn’t going to like it.

“Thomas?” Jimmy asked. “Say something.”

Thomas blinked at him, still not able to make sense of the world.

“Please” Jimmy begged, “anything.”

Thomas opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it again. He tried with having another go at blinking instead.

“I… I’m too late, aren’t I” Jimmy whispered, more to himself than to Thomas. “I… I was too cowardly to realise what I had and… now I’m too late. O’Brien was right. You don’t want me anymore.” Jimmy seemed to shrink before Thomas eyes, and he looked as vulnerable and young as Abigail did on the nights she cried herself to sleep in Thomas’ arms. Jimmy blinked rapidly as if forcing back tears and that was too much for Thomas to bear. In a few short steps he was standing next to Jimmy, and in the next moment he had his arms around him. Blast the risk of getting caught. 

“Say it again” he demanded. Jimmy trembled, but looked up at him with quiet determination in his eyes.

“I love you, Thomas.” It was all he had ever wanted to hear, and there was only one way to respond.

He pulled Jimmy even closer and kissed him passionately.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The kiss was everything Thomas had ever dreamt about on those lonely nights; hot, searching, passionate… their tongues twined around each other in a dance older than time, and Thomas could feel his body reacting. But even better; he could feel  _ Jimmy’s _ body reacting. Finally they had to break apart for air, and stood panting and staring wide-eyed at each other, both decidedly dishevelled with their collars undone and hair mussed.

“Thomas” Jimmy finally managed, “does this mean you-” Thomas kissed him again.

“Yes. Always, whole-heartedly.” He said between kisses, feeling the beautiful blond man melt into his embrace. 

“Thomas” Jimmy gasped as his hands started to roam in a way that was  _ most definitely _ not suited for such a public place. “We have to-” the rest of his sentence was cut off as he licked hotly over the shell of Thomas ear, making the other man shudder with want.

“I know” Thomas panted. “My room is… just upstairs.”

“What about your niece?” Jimmy had barely enough brainpower to ask even as Thomas dragged him towards the staircase.

“In the kitchen. With Hercule. Not an issue.”

“Good” Jimmy offered, and that cinched the deal.

 

* * *

 

 

Once Thomas finally managed to get out the door without Jimmy getting handsy - and that took a while - he went straight to the kitchen to check on Abigail.

He found her sitting on the counter, dangling her legs and eating something brown and sticky from a big bowl. With her hands. He groaned inwardly. She was going to need a bath.

“Chocolate cake” she said cheerily as way of explanation. “Monsieur Hercule let me lick the bowl.”

“Yes” Thomas said dryly, “I can see that.”

Abigail ignored his disapproving look and licked more batter from her sticky fingers.

“Where is your sweetheart, uncle Tom?” She asked instead. Thomas glanced nervously at Hercule, but the chef only grinned at him as he rolled out a pastry case.

“Yes, chérie.” the frenchman said,  “Where is your sweetheart?”

“Sleeping, I expect.” Thomas said primly, then started laughing as peals of giggles started to fall from Abigail’s chocolate-smeared lips. Hercule shook his head and laughed, too.

“A, young love” he said cheerily. “What say you, ma jolie petite fille - how shall we decorate the bird pie for Madame Travers?”

Thomas shook his head fondly as Abigail started chattering about birds and leaves and lattices and and and, and turned to leave the kitchen. It was clear he had nothing to worry about where she was concerned.  

 

* * *

 

 

Thomas was about halfway on his way back to his rooms to see if Jimmy was willing to be roused for another round of… sporting, so to speak, when he was accosted by a rather irate gentleman. Mr Wooster looked as if he was about to figure out where the best place to hide a body was at Brinkley Court, and Thomas was the body in question as soon as Mr Wooster had done him in.

“Mr Barrow!” The man thundered in a voice almost at the same level as his aunt’s. “A word!”

“Yes, mr Wooster. But perhaps not in public?” Thomas had a pretty good idea what the gentleman wanted to say anyways. Mr Wooster looked like he wanted to punch him in the nose, but managed to restrain himself long enough for Thomas to escort him into one of the seldom used guest rooms. The moment the door closed behind Thomas’ back, Mr Wooster was yelling.

“How dare you use Jeeves in such a callous manner!” He thundered, leaving Thomas seriously considering laughing. But he restrained his mirth, even though he felt inordinately pleased at the obvious jealousy and indignation showed by the other man. 

“My good sir,” he said as he did his best imitation of Jeeves’ stuffed frog-expression, “I am sure I have no idea of what you are accusing me of.”

“Ha!” Mr Wooster cried, then he clearly had to take a break to get his feelings under control. “You- you cad! You seduce a poor innocent man and then throw him away the moment someone younger comes along! I saw you with that- that  _ wastrel! _ How could you? To  _ Jeeves!” _

Thomas restrained the urge to roll his eyes.

“Mr Wooster, if I might explain-”

“Ha!” Mr Wooster cried again, waving his finger in a manner that was probably meant to look accusing. It only served to make him look like a toddler about to throw a tantrum. Or Abigail when he refused to let her stay up past her bedtime. “Explain? What is there to  _ explain _ you fungus?” Mr Wooster cried. Thomas held back a sigh.

“It is true that Mr Jeeves and I… have been spending time together, yes.” He ignored the scowl Mr Wooster sent him. It had nothing on Mrs Travers when she’d come off the phone with the printers of  _ Milady’s Boudoir _ . “However, we were both, in fact, using the other as substitutes. Basically, we could not have who we truly wanted but we could have each other.” Mr Wooster’s rage seemed to go out of him like the air of a popped balloon. He opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, and Thomas found himself wondering if that was what he had looked like when Jimmy told him he loved him. 

“Jeeves… you…”

“Yes, sir. It is true that I was using Jeeves, but he was using me to the same extent, sir.” Mr Wooster looked even more like a fish on dry land than before, as he tried to make sense of the world. Much in the way Thomas had after Jimmy’s declaration.

“Then who-” Mr Wooster began, then stopped himself. Thomas decided to take pity on the man.

“I think you know that, Mr Wooster.” 

“Yes” Mr Wooster said after a moment, looking very subdued. “I… I think I do. But  _ why _ has he never said anything?”

“I would expect it is because you are in a position of power over him, sir. One word from you and he will be doing two years of hard labour at His Majesty’s Leisure.”

“But surely he knows that I would never-” Mr Wooster protested, a look of horror on his handsome face.

“I would also dare venture guessing that he, as I once, dares not speak in case his feelings are not well received, sir. It is one thing to long for something in private, sir, but a completely different one to voice those longings and have them spurned.”

Mr Wooster looked at Thomas with one of those looks that hinted at the keen intelligence hiding behind the personality of the fop.

“You speak from experience, don't you, Barrow.” It wasn't a question, but Thomas treated it like one anyway.

“Yes, sir.”

“May I ask what happened?”

“You witnessed what happened. In the servant’s hall.” Mr Wooster nodded thoughtfully.

“I see.” There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. 

“I- I need to go.” Mr Wooster finally said. “I am sorry for my behaviour, old thing.”

“Think no more of it, sir.” Thomas said, ignoring the unsuitable address.

Mr Wooster nodded at him gratefully, flashed a smile that would have made a lesser man, or a man not desperately in love, swoon. It had no effect whatsoever on Thomas. He simply gave a short bow as Mr Wooster excited the room, no doubt in search of his own valet.

Thomas stood still for a moment, musing on how well things turn out sometimes. Then he strolled back to his room to wake Jimmy.

 

* * *

 

 

A few days later, Thomas was once more serving at dinner along with Jeeves and Seppings.

“Have you decided what to do about Waterbury’s replacement, Aunt Dahlia?” Mr Wooster asked as he dug into his portion of  _ Gigot D’Agneau Pleureur _ .

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Mrs Travers trumpeted in a pleased tone of voice, “Mr Barrow took care of that problem for us. Got us a young man named Kent. He drove Angela today, didn’t he dear?” Miss Travers smiled.

“Oh yes, and very attentive he was, too. He will do very well, mother. He’s a bit unsure about locations around here, but he’ll learn.”

“I told you Sparrow is a marvel” Mr Travers said in an equally happy tone as he dug into his meat and vegetables, seemingly not missing the lack of  _ pommes gaufrettes _ on the plate Thomas had set before him. “Well in the class of your Jeeves, my boy.” Mr Wooster nodded, then shot Jeeves a besotted, adoring look that was returned by the man in question. For a moment there was no one else in the room but them.

“Yes, he most certainly is” Mr Wooster agreed reverently. 

  
  


_ -Fin. _


End file.
